


A Monster Guide to Love

by foxsgloves



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluffity Fluff Fluff, Gen, Non-Binary Frisk, Post-Pacifist Route, Small Determined Child Ships Goatmom/Skeleton, mute!Frisk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5228834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxsgloves/pseuds/foxsgloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frisk is a helper. So what to do when their foster mom and her best skeleton friend won’t face up to their feelings for each other?  Recruit all their monster friends to get them to confess their secret love, obviously.  It's helping!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“So what do you say, Frisk? Best twenty-eight out of fifty-seven?” It is a Saturday afternoon and Frisk and Papyrus are sitting at the couch in Toriel’s living room, playing word search war on the coffee table. Word search war involves Frisk finishing puzzles at about five times Papyrus’s speed while he grumbles about beginner’s luck.

Sans and Toriel are out on a not-date. For the past six months on the surface, Toriel and Sans have gone out on not-dates at least every other week, to the theater and the arcade and some fancy pasta restaurant that Papyrus dismisses with a sniff. Even though it is a not-date and therefore not awkward, Toriel prefers not to ask Asgore to look after Frisk, and Undyne and Alphys are out on a real date, leaving only Papyrus for the job. Papyrus, the skeleton who once held Frisk “prisoner” by leaving them in a shed behind too-wide bars with a plate of frozen spaghetti.

Needless to say, Frisk does most of the watching.

Before Papyrus can distribute two new puzzles the door slams open, letting in a blast of summer breeze and the soft bleat of Toriel’s laughter. “What’s a skeleton’s favorite musical instrument?” she asks around giggles. “The trom- _BONE_!”

Sans pauses to brace himself in the doorway, his ribs quaking as he chuckles. “You must be _kid_ -ding me, Tori!”

“THIS IS AWFUL,” Papyrus announces.

Toriel’s floppy ears are a little pink, and Frisk doesn’t think it’s the heat outside. Also, Sans is notably sweaty. They still don’t know how he sweats anyway, and the last time they asked he just made a joke about “Not sweating, leaking awesome.”

“Did you have a fun time with Papyrus, my child?” Toriel picks up Frisk’s sketchpad from the coffee table and offers it to them.

Frisk snatches up a handful of crayons and scribbles _Did YOU have a fun time with Uncle Sans???_ With YOU underlined three times in purple. Toriel’s pink ears twitch. “I always have fun with your Uncle Sans! He’s such a great friend.”

_YES,_ Frisk scrawls in red. _GREAT FRIEND._

“You know why skeletons make great friends? _Two humerus!_ ” Sans winks, making finger guns at Frisk.

“AAAND THAT IS ENOUGH,” says Papyrus, sending the coffee table and sheaves of crosswords flying as he springs from the couch. “COME ALONG BROTHER, COME ALONG NOW, IT IS TIME FOR OUR HASTY EXIT.”

“Hold on now, bro. Tori asked me if I wanted to stay for dinner. And it’s been a while since me and my good pal Frisk had a nice heart-to-ribcage.”

“You are welcome as well, Papyrus,” says Toriel, but Papyrus is already hurling himself out the door with a cry of “I WOULD LIKE NOTHING LESS.”

“His loss. You want our help with dinner, Tori? I’m trying _tibia_ better chef.”

“Oh, goodness, no,” Toriel smothers a laugh with her paw. “It’s just leftovers from last night. Why don’t—why don’t you and Frisk find something to watch on TV? I heard that Mettaton’s new game show special is on this evening.”

So Frisk and Sans settle on the couch, Sans righting the coffee table so he can put up his feet. He takes off his jacket and drapes it over Frisk’s shoulders. By all rights, a skeleton shouldn’t smell like anything, but Sans and his jacket carry the odd but comforting scent of warm clay and and greasy food. Tonight, though, the diner funk is half-drenched in something like sweet lemons, and as Frisk pokes their head out they notice for the first time that Sans is wearing shoes instead of his worn house slippers.

They suffer in confusion through the opening credits of Mettaton’s show, which is thirty seconds of Mettaton posing on top of the set in increasingly more ridiculous positions, and gather their determination to start pestering their foster parents about their feelings for one another.

They scribble to Sans, _Hey, you’re over here all the time. You come to see Toriel a whole lot!_

“How do you know I’m not over here to see my favorite little human?” He elbows them. “You know how much I like you, kid?”

_A skele-ton_? asks Frisk.

“That’s my kiddo. I’m so proud right now.”

Frisk tugs on the edge of Sans’s shirt, then writes, _Toriel likes you a lot too_.

Sans shoots a quick glance to the kitchen, where Toriel is humming to herself while blasting a pot full of leftover snail stew in a wave of fire magic. “She’s a real classy lady. How did she get so great? It’s a real--“, he winks, “—mys- _Tori_.”

Frisk obligingly scribbles _AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH_ in huge red letters all over their paper.

“Why you asking, Frisk?”

Frisk bites their lip, writing _Do you like her?_

“You know I like her, short stack. Why would I be over here all the time if I didn’t—Ah. I see what you’re getting at.” There is an awkward pause filled by Mettaton singing a song about lost love, or perhaps his own thighs. It’s hard to tell. “Why do you want me to _patella_ you that, huh?” Frisk holds up their page full of _AAAHHHH_. “How about let’s not go down that road, or we’re both gonna have a bad time.”

_PATELLA ME!!!_ writes a frowning Frisk.

“Hey, kid, no point in bothering a washed-up old pile of bones about stuff like this. Let’s take a rain check on this conversation. We can finish it later at Grillby’s! My treat.”

_But Grillby’s is closed_ , scribbles Frisk. Sans offers a lazy wink. “Exactly.”

“I hope you’re ready for snail stew!” Toriel calls from the kitchen. Sans glances at Frisk, then to the sketchpad, then back at Frisk, then at Toriel’s shadow creeping up the hallway. Sweat beads on his cranium.

“H-hey, kid, look over there!” He points at the screen, where Mettaton is doing a midair split in a spray of glitter.

Frisk tries to angle the sketchpad away from his bony, grasping fingers, but he’s still able to rip off the incriminating page, crumple it up, and stuff it in his mouth before Toriel clears the doorway with three bowls balanced on her arm. She sets them down on the coffee table and pauses to eye the only empty spot on the couch, which is next to Sans. He notices. He glances down, a little drop of sweat catching on his cheekbone. She clears her throat and circles the table to nudge Frisk’s foot. “Scoot your boot, butterscotch!”

Frisk, pouting, attempts to launch over Sans, but he’s too quick for them and they end up half-draped over his femurs. “Whoa there,” he says, nudging them back into the buffer zone between himself and Toriel. Frisk crosses their arms and sinks down until they’re hanging off the edge of the couch, then eats their snail soup without picking up a crayon, even when Toriel nudges the sketchpad a little bit closer.  They wish they could groan.

After forty minutes of sweaty silence, the show ends in a five minute long credits sequence. Or so Frisk thinks, as it’s just Mettaton’s name repeated over and over on different sparkly backgrounds. “Well. That was an experience!” Toriel says, brightening as she turns to Frisk. “Whose bedtime is it? Did I just see a yawn, young one?”

Frisk finally picks up the yellow crayon to write _NO!_

“Oh yes I did. It’s after ten o’clock. And what do we call kids who won’t go to sleep on time?” She glances sidelong at Sans, who can’t keep from cracking a smile as they both exclaim _“Frisky!”_

Frisk tears off their page of _AAAAHHHH_ and throws it towards the ceiling.

They know what’s coming next, because they see it at least once a week. Awkward eye contact, blushing, looking away, hand-wringing, awkward eye contact a second time, Sans makes a speedy exit with a half-baked joke.

“Off to bed with you, child,” says Toriel during the blushing phase, nudging Frisk with a huge paw that nearly sweeps them off the couch by accident. “Sans… maybe you ought to…”

Sans is backing away slowly towards the door. “Right, you know how it is, bedtime for Frisk is bedtime for me, these old bones need their rest, I sleep a whole lot, see you tomorrow at the potluck?”

“Of course. Tomorrow.”

“ _Coolthanksbye_ ,” says the echo of San’s voice through the door before it slams shut in a burst of wind. Not even a quarter-baked joke. Toriel sighs, absently stroking Frisk’s hair. “Brush your teeth for two minutes, now, or you don’t get pie tomorrow. I’m counting.”

* * *

 

Frisk attempts Phase Two with Toriel as she mixes said pie by luring her in with a drawing of some golden flowers. She moves closer to peer over Frisk’s shoulder, careful to lift her bowl full of pie filling so it doesn’t dribble on their sweater. “What a lovely drawing!”

_You and Uncle Sans spend a lot of time together_ , they have written under the picture. They tap an insistent finger against it.  Toriel stirs harder. “We’re old friends, Frisk. We had a special time every week where we would meet at the ruins door. We even had a secret code! See, we’re secret code friends, which are the best kind of friends.”

_It must be really nice to be able to see him in person_.

For a moment, Toriel’s ears sag and her eyes grow dim and distant. Frisk feels like their chest is suddenly too small. They have never asked Toriel about how long she spent in the ruins, because she gets like this. But they know it was many years. Many years longer than they have been alive. A long, long time to be alone.

“It is. Very nice. And strange. I had grown so used to him as just a voice through a door.”

_But now_ , scrawls a blushing Frisk, _you can hug him. And stuff._

“… Yes,” Toriel says, whipping the mix so fiercely a few blobs fly free and land on Frisk’s sweater. “I can hug him.”

_Do you want to hug him?_

“Frisk, really!” She sets the bowl down, crossing her arms. “For your information I have hugged your Uncle Sans, on multiple occasions. And I think the question you should be asking is who I want to hug… right now! Because it’s you!”

With a huge grin and a silent squeal, Frisk launches out of their chair and gets a running start towards their room, but Toriel has about three times their stride and huge paws to trap them in. She’s mercilessly tickling Frisk’s sides while Frisk heaves, tears prickling the corners of their eyes, when the doorbell rings. “Hold on just a second!” Toriel laughs, but it’s Undyne, so the door gets kicked in, because Undyne never has a second.

She and Alphys brought red bean buns and a stack of anime. Sans and Papyrus arrive about two minutes later with a huge platter of spaghetti, and then Asgore and his big kettle of tea, gouging out the doorframe with his horns even when he stoops. Toriel always invites Asgore to Sunday potluck, though she still insists that they are not and will not ever be friends, even when she’s patting his shoulder gently and taking his jacket to stuff in the hall closet.

Sunday is Frisk’s favorite day of the week, because of this—picking out a terrible anime to watch from Alphys’s collection (and hiding their face in Sans’s jacket during the fighting parts), losing at arm wrestling to Undyne (then cheering on Toriel to three wins in a row), and eating Papyrus’s spaghetti, which they think is slowly approaching edible (at the very least, the sauce is now mostly tomato, and of an appropriate consistency).

It is nearly perfect. Except for how Sans and Toriel still refuse to sit next to each other on the couch, and how she turns red and doesn’t finish one of his puns even though he gave her the perfect setup.  And how he rubs the back of his skull in disappointment afterwards, glancing nervously at Asgore over his shoulder.

Toriel very much notices Frisk watching and and they end up on the receiving end of one of her narrow-eyed motherly stares. They feel their embarrassment crawling on their back.

They are forced to admit that Phases One and Two of their plan have failed. But they are determined. They’ll just have to think of a better idea.

The better idea occurs to them when they return to the living room after Toriel sends them to wash their hands before pie. Alphys and Undyne spring apart immediately, as just seconds before they had been in direct violation of Toriel’s “no passionate smooching in front of the child” policy.

Alphys and Undyne are dating. Alphys and Undyne are the local adult experts on dating.

It’s time for Frisk to consult an expert.

They sidle over to Undyne to show her a little drawing of some waves and a sailboat. _Swimming lessons?_ They have written.

“Oh yeah, that’s right! I told you I’d teach you.” Frisk can’t swim, which Undyne discovered to great disappointment after throwing them in the pool during one of Asgore’s backyard barbecues. “Are you ready to brave the waves? Are you ready to swim five hundred laps and then hoot about how great we are?”

Frisk draws themself in the water, and then Undyne, or at least a blue rectangle that could possibly be Undyne.

“YEAH!! I’m into it! Bring on the freezing water, champ! You and me are gonna be the biggest bada—“ Sans shoots a glare across the room, his left eye glowing a freezing blue. “I mean, the biggest bad… apples… at the beach!”

* * *

 

After three hours of swimming lessons, Frisk is having serious regrets. Their arms are cramping, their ribs are moldsmal jelly, and their legs are about to snap off. But they can swim now. Like a greater dog, but it still counts. And Undyne bought them a snack from the Nice Cream Guy.

The two sit with their legs dangling over the edge of the pier, Undyne’s webbed feet slicing up spray as she drags them back and forth. “So what did you wanna talk about, kiddo?” asks Undyne, ruffling Frisk’s hair so fiercely they almost topple off the edge.

Frisk’s ice cream slides off the cone and plops into the water with a sullen splash. Frisk watches it sink mournfully, then stuffs their empty cone in their mouth and pulls out their sketchpad. _**DATING**_ , they scribble in wobbly green crayon.

“OOOOH! Our little Frisk has a CRUSH!” Undyne scoops Frisk up under her arm for a huge noogie. “Frisk has a cru-ush, Frisk has a cru-ush! Who is it? Who is it who is it whoisit?”

Frisk flails until Undyne sets them down, then shakes their head firmly, their round cheeks red. They scrawl a large blob with sharp bits on top that vaguely resembles Toriel and a pile of wide sticks that may or may not be Sans.

“I’m not following you, kid.”

Frisk holds their fingers above their head like little horns, then makes an exaggerated shrug. “Toriel… and Sans?” Frisk bobs their head, then cups their hands into a heart shape. “Toriel and Sans… are secretly in love? Well, duh, champ, everybody can see that!” Undyne kicks up an enormous, sparkling stream of spray. “Alphys tells me all about how she thinks they should hook up, only every single time we come over to your house.”

Frisk pumps their fist.

“So you’re asking about dating because you want me to help you… set them up together?”

Frisk pumps both their fists.

“Frisk. I’m not gonna lie. That is… THE BEST IDEA I’VE EVER HEARD OF.”

Grasping Frisk under the arms, she hoists them up and twirls them around in the air. “WE ARE WINNERS! WE ARE CHAMPIONS!” She lifts Frisk to her face until their noses bump together. “And we are gonna make them FALL IN LOVE SO HARD that cheesy music starts playing in the background and anime roses rain from the ceiling!”

She whirls in a circle, shouts “REFLEX TRAINING!” and hurls Frisk into the ocean.

Frisk’s reflexes once saved the world. They curl into a cannonball to break the surface with a crash. “NICE! YOU’RE MAKING ME PROUD!” Undyne whoops before diving in after them. Frisk did not know it was possible to noogie someone underwater. Undyne proves them wrong.

They cling to her back as she tows them back to the beach, chuckling to herself. “Just wait until I tell Alphys about this. She’ll have so many good ideas. She’s gonna love it.”

* * *

 

“We-well…” Alphys pokes her fingertips together, drawing a claw along the floor. “Um, you guys, I really think this is kind of a terrible idea.”

Frisk doesn’t know a whole lot about secret labs, but they think that Alphys’s new one on the surface is pretty sick. It’s all slick chrome and flashing lights and beeping doodads, and it has huge ceiling windows that scatter puddles of sunlight everywhere. Alphys naps in them sometimes when she thinks no one is looking. It is from such a nap that Undyne woke her with what may or may not have been a passionate smooch. Undyne made Frisk cover their eyes.

“But babe,” says Undyne, resting her arms on her girlfriend’s head. “You ship it. You ship it so hard. You even wrote that really excellent fanfiction—“

“N-no I d-did not. I don’t write fanfiction about real people anymore! Okay… well… except… just that one time, after the Christmas party when I was a little tipsy.”

“You should read it sometime, Frisk! It’s really good. Alphys is so talented. It’s, like, published quality.”

“You should absolutely not read it!” Alphys protests with a wave of her claws, flushed. “It belongs in the trash! And I still think this is a terrible idea. Real life shipping never works out like in fics! Believe me! I have a lot of personal experience with this!”

“You wrote fic about us,” says Undyne with a sneaky grin, lowering her arms to give Alphys a squeeze.

“A-and I wish Mettaton had never told you about that!” Alphys turns the color of spaghetti sauce.

“Why? Personally, I’m really hype about acting out our shared domestic life together.”

“Frisk, um, ahah, turn around please,” stammers a grinning Alphys, and Frisk turns their back while passionate smooching is most likely occurring.

This gives them ample time to scribble a paragraph for Alphys. Alphys, pushing her glasses up her snout, bends to read it.

_Sans and Toriel like each other a whole lot. You and Undyne are really happy together. I want them to have what you have, too._

“Oh, Frisk.” Alphys’s glasses refract the tears gleaming in her eyes. “That… that is so sweet.”

“Babe. Please. You know you wanna.” Undyne bounces up and down, lifting Alphys with her.

Alphys gives a little _oof_ , then says, “All right. But will you guys promise me one thing? Will you… try to… dial it back just a little?”

“Of course! Anything for you, babe! I’ll dial it back SO HARD it’ll be front again!” shouts Undyne with clenched fists. Frisk gives an emphatic nod.

“Then… what the heck! Let’s do this. I’ll start a log for it. I’m thinking Operation: Fanfiction Is Real?”

“FANFICTION IS HELLA REAL!” hoots Undyne, then claps a hand on Frisk’s shoulder as Alphys begins tapping away one of the nearby desktops. “We have your creative genius! Frisk’s determination! My foolproof guide to picking up chicks! WE ARE GONNA MAKE THEM FALL IN LOVE SO HARD THEY BREAK INTO A CUTE MUSICAL NUMBER! But… something’s still missing!”

She summons a magic spear to stab upwards for dramatic effect and accidentally shatters one of the ceiling windows. “REFLEX TRAINING!” she hollers as Frisk hops to their left to avoid a sprinkle of shattered glass. Alphys _tsks_ as her claws clack against the keyboard. “We need inside information on Sans. We need someone who knows Sans… LIKE A BROTHER.”

_WE NEED PAPYRUS!_ Frisk scrawls in letters so huge they fall off the page. Even aside from his useful information and puzzling skills, Frisk is certain that Sans will need approval from his cool brother before starting a new relationship.

Alphys flaps her claws anxiously, but Undyne is already dialing Papyrus’s number. “Hey, Pap! You’re on speakerphone, dude! So guess what! Alphys and Frisk are here and we have this totally awesome plan! We’re gonna get Toriel and Sans to confess their secret love for each other! Wait, don’t you DARE hang up on—“ Papyrus hangs up with a sharp click. The dialtone shrills.

Undyne redials, stabbing the keys with her finger. The phone rings. Papyrus hangs up immediately. The dialtone shrills.

Undyne dials again, growling under her breath. He answers with a “NYEH HEH HEH” and then hangs up a third time. The dialtone shrills.

The next time he picks up, Undyne shouts in a breathless rush, “FRISK SAYS THEY’LL MAKE YOU SPAGHETTI.”

“OH NO! I LOVE SPAGHETTI! ESPECIALLY SPAGHETTI MADE BY MY COOL FRIEND FRISK!” There is a long silence as Papyrus considers. “HOWEVER… EVEN A PLATEFUL OF DELICIOUS SPAGHETTI FROM MY COOL FRIEND FRISK WOULD NOT BALANCE OUT A LIFETIME OF ENDURING AN ENDLESS ONSLAUGHT OF TERRIBLE JOKES.”

Frisk scribbles frantically. “Frisk says… They would like you to think about how when Sans is at Toriel’s house, he is not making a mess at your apartment. Also, they promise to cook you spaghetti every week for forever.”

“WOWIE, FRISK! THAT IS A LOT OF SPAGHETTI!” Papyrus considers again. “IT’S TRUE… I DO REALLY ENJOY HOW SPOTLESS THE HOUSE IS WHEN SANS HAS SPENT THE DAY AWAY! ALSO, I WANT THAT SPAGHETTI! COUNT ME IN ON YOUR COOL SECRET PLAN!”

Shortly afterward Papyrus vaults through the shattered ceiling window. He sticks the landing. Undyne whoops, Frisk claps politely, and Alphys thanks him for not breaking another one. He is wearing his Cool Guy shirt and brought a matching one for Frisk. They tug it on over their sweater.

“Now that we’re all here… LINE UP, RECRUITS! HERE IS OUR PATH TO SUCCESS! MY PATENTED GUIDE TO SEDUCING CUTE GIRLS!” Undyne slams her right fist into her left palm. “So you’ve met a cute chick at the dump! You’ve hung out with her a little and done awesome things like suplex couches! How do you close the deal? STEP ONE! Make her a nice home-cooked meal! Chicks really dig sauce made from TOMATOES YOU PUNCHED YOURSELF and noodles cooked in WATER YOU BOILED WITH THE FORCE OF YOUR RAW PASSION.”

“It’s true,” concurs a flushing Alphys. “Chicks dig that.”

“STEP TWO! Invite her over for an anime night! Watch a thing you both love! Get hype about it! Sit too close together on the couch and maybe grab her knee when things get intense! Tell her you’ll rub her sore shoulders!”

“Chicks… _r-really_ dig that.”

“STEP THREE! This one’s for you, Frisk! CONFESS YOUR FEELINGS! WRITE A BEAUTIFUL LETTER ABOUT YOUR LOVE!” She points at Frisk with a spear, nearly cracking one of Alphys’s tables in half. “THAT IS OUR GOAL! THAT IS OUR MISSION!” She paces. “We begin with step one: MAKE HER A QUALITY MEAL.”

“THAT’S EASY! WE JUST COOK SOME AWESOME FOOD AND THEN SAY IT’S FROM SANS.” Papyrus taps a finger against his chin. “AND THEN CONVINCE HER THAT SANS CAN COOK.”

_Needs pie_ , Frisk volunteers.

“AND SPAGHETTI!”

Undyne throws an arm over Papyrus’s shoulders. “Spaghetti’s all well and good, Pap, but this is serious business. This is ROMANTIC AMBIANCE. We need SPAGHETTI THAT’S SLAUGHTERED ITS ENEMIES AND LEVELED UP. WE NEED… MY TOP SECRET COOKING TECHNIQUE.”

Alphys gasps, covering her snout with her claws. “Undyne! You can’t mean!!”

“I do, babe. We need… THE ALFREDO OF LOVE AND JUSTICE.”

“She made it for me the fourth time we hung out,” Alphys whispers to Frisk. “It’s when I fell in love with her.”

“Then the plan is settled! HANDS IN, TEAM!”

“W-wait! I think maybe we ought to agree, before we start anything… not to tell Metta about any of this? You all remember what happened last time…” By the last time, Frisk assumes Alphys is referring to Asgore’s Christmas party. Half the guest list didn’t show up, so Mettaton arrived at Asgore’s condo with an entire concert in his wake. Frisk didn’t even get to see any of it, because Toriel smuggled them out in her giant tacky sweater before they could be crushed underfoot by any ravers.

They bob their head with enthusiasm. “Yeah, yeah, probably safe,” Undyne mutters.

“IF YOU THINK IT IS BEST, ALPHYS, THEN I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WILL LET NOTHING SLIP OF THIS PLOT TO METTATON! EVEN IF HE LOOKS ME RIGHT IN THE FACE WITH HIS HANDSOME BISHOUNEN EYES AND BEGS ME TO TELL HIM WITH HIS SHAPELY LIPS!” Frisk finds this suspiciously specific, but Papyrus just blushes and rubs the back of his cervical spine.

“OKAY! NOW, hands in, people,” says Undyne, and Frisk places their tiny hand on top of Papyrus’s phalanges, Undyne’s moist scales, and Alphys’s claw. As Undyne cries “BREAK!” their phone buzzes in their pocket.

It’s a text from Toriel, along with a picture of snail casserole. “Hello, my child! I made your favorite for dinner tonight, as all that swimming has probably made you very hungry! Send me a “smiley emoji” if you want this snail casserole, and please tell Undyne to bring you home soon! Love, Your Mom.”

Frisk sends Toriel a smiley emoji and holds up the phone for the others to see. “OKAY, TEAM, WE ENTER PHASE ONE OF OUR MISSION! And we will not give up! We will not be defeated! WE ARE WINNERS, WE ARE CHAMPIONS, and WE ARE GONNA MAKE THEM FALL IN LOVE SO HARD THEY GET LITTLE HEARTS IN THEIR EYES!” Undyne scoops up Frisk under one arm. “It’s Recruit Frisk’s curfew, but don’t let me catch you two slacking!”

“Yes sir, girlfriend ma’am,” Alphys giggles.

Papyrus snaps a huge salute. “GUARD-CAPTAIN UNDYNE! I HAVE LONG DREAMED OF BEING UNDER YOUR COMMAND! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WILL NOT FAIL YOU IN THIS DESPERATE HOUR!”

“That’s what I wanna hear! Now get to the armory—I mean kitchen—and round up all the pots! Tomorrow, WE COOK!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the kind words on Chapter One! Y'all are too nice. I'm so glad this silly fic was able to make somebody smile.

“Is she gone?” Frisk and Undyne crouch at the kitchen windows. Toriel disappears around the street corner with a watering can dangling from her arm, humming to herself. Usually Frisk tags along on her summer break trips to tend flowers in the park, but today they asked if they could stay home with Aunt Undyne instead. Toriel, just the slightest bit suspicious, agreed after some begging.

“The coast is clear! Alert the troops!” Frisk yanks out their phone and sends a picture to Papyrus and Alphys. It’s a photo of a page of Frisk’s sketchbook with _CODE PINK_ written in glitter pen.

They hear a “NYEH-HEH-HEH!” as Papyrus pops out of one of the bushes that Asgore trimmed to look like his head, though it’s grown out and now resembles a lumpy radish. Alphys pokes her head out beside him. They scurry to the door as Undyne zips open her duffel bag and upends it, dumping an entire percussion section of pots, pans, ladles, and spoons onto the floor.

“HUDDLE UP, SQUAD! We are about to attempt a risky and dangerous mission. And not only do we seek to make THE ALFREDO OF LOVE AND JUSTICE, but Recruit Frisk has volunteered to take on Toriel’s own butterscotch pie recipe. The recipe that, in the end, not even His Majesty King Asgore Dreemurr could replicate!”

Frisk gulps, staring down the oven. They are filled with determination.

“Alphys! Is central command up and running?”

“Yes sir, girlfriend ma’am,” says Alphys with a salute as she taps away on her laptop. “Decrypting recipe now!”

“Frisk! Commence pie operations!”

Frisk tugs on Papyrus’s shorts so he will lift them up to the high cabinets. Butterscotch, flour, sugar, cinnamon, milk, eggs. Frisk has watched Toriel make this pie more than enough times. They can do this.

Even if they drop a little bit of flour on the floor. And crack too many eggs and get gunk all over their fingers. And add one fourth cup of salt instead of one tablespoon.

“Alphys! Recipe me!” Alphys slides her glasses down her snout and leans close to her screen. “Fill a pot with water and set to boil at high temperature.”

“I think you mean to the temperature OF SANS’S BURNING LOVE,” says Undyne as she slaps a pot onto the stove, sloshing water everywhere. She cranks the temperature knob as far as it will go, then grunts and forces it farther. The stove squeaks in protest.

“Now, begin chopping the onions and garlic.”

“THAT IS MY CUE!” cries Papyrus, taking an onion in one hand and a clove of garlic in the other. He tosses them overhand in Undyne’s direction so she can cut them with her spines.

She catches two, slicing them to neat ribbons that curl on the floor in Frisk’s flour puddle. One misses and thumps against the kitchen window. The other flies towards Frisk’s head. “REFLEX TRAINING, LITTLE CHAMP!” They duck, hunching over their bowl of pie crust.

The pasta water bubbles, and boils, and then creeps over the edge of the saucepan and spills onto the floor while Frisk and Papyrus throw the last of the onions. “Butter the saucepan,” says Alphys, ducking back to relative safety behind her screen.

Undyne and Papyrus each grasp a stick of butter, stick the ends in the pan, and attempt to fence one another. “Your buttering technique needs work, Papyrus! Use a more decisive thrust!”

“IT WILL BE AS YOU COMMAND, GUARD-CAPTAIN!” says Papyrus, saluting with the half-melted butter stick. Some of it lands on Frisk, so coated in flour they could be mistaken for Napstablook, as they attempt to fold their knobby blob of crust into a pie pan.

Undyne summons a hail of magic spears to hammer into the pasta pot. Most of them leave dents. One pierces the metal, producing a whistling geyser of boiling water. Frisk dances out of range and whisks until their arms creak in their sockets, pie filling flying. Undyne wrangles a huge mound of pasta from the pot to the saucepan and Papyrus screeches as he accidentally squeezes lemon juice all over his hands. “HOW CAN IT BURN WHEN I DON’T HAVE SKIN?”

As the boiling geyser looms larger, Alphys and her computer duck for cover under the table. She attempts to give more directions, but her timid voice is drowned out by Undyne’s roars, Frisk’s fevered whisking, and Papyrus's regular speaking voice.

“STEP IT UP, FRISK! HARDER, BETTER, FASTER, STRONGER!” At last, the pie filling has thickened, and with the final dregs of their strength Frisk pours it into the tin and tucks it under a second layer of crust. The crust is square, lumpy, and too thick, but it is a pie. They hold it up in triumph to show Undyne. “HELLLLL YEAH, CHAMP! STICK THAT IN THE OVEN!”

Papyrus shrieks as the alfredo sauce rises up and out of the pan with a low moaning sound. “THIS IS FINE!” Undyne shouts. “IT’S NORMAL FOR IT TO TRY TO FIGHT BACK NEAR THE END!” She closes in, piercing it with a barrage of magic. Papyrus prepares a non-bone attack, then wastes a precious minute correcting his mistake. Frisk drops their pie as they roll under the table with Alphys to take cover from the gobs of sauce flying across the room.

At Undyne’s direction Papyrus turns the heat up beneath the saucepan. The alfredo monstrosity, bubbling and groaning, catches fire. “YES! WE’RE WINNING! DON’T LET UP NOW!” Undyne strikes, and the sauce staggers backward, sloshing against the cabinets, which promptly begin to smolder. Flames lap against the table. Alphys screams and the smoke alarm joins her. “WE’RE SO CLOSE! KEEP FIGHTING!”

They have almost wrangled the sauce back into its pan when the Toriel bursts through the front door, her paws haloed in magic.

She snatches Frisk up under an arm and hauls them outside. They cough up half a lung as she returns to the kitchen to douse the alfredo monstrosity in a jet of magic. Undyne, who does not appear to realize that this is not a part of the cooking experience, throws her arms in the air and shouts “HELL YEAH! GET IT, YOUR MAJESTY! SHOW IT YOUR TRUE PASSION!”

“Swear jar, Undyne!” calls Sans, left eye glowing, who has ambled up the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. He rubs Frisk’s back. “What’s up, Frisk? My brother in there?”

Frisk, still hacking, points towards the kitchen. “Thanks. I gotta ask him a few… _burning questions_.”

Frisk sags as Sans and Papyrus reappear from the cloud of smoke, followed by Alphys riding on Undyne’s shoulders, and all of them herded by Toriel, who has yet to extinguish her magic.

“Good fight, squad! I really think this ALFREDO OF LOVE AND JUSTICE is going to be THE TOUGHEST, MOST MAJESTIC ALFREDO YET!”

“Undyne. You set my house on fire… trying to cook dinner?”

“YOUR MAJESTY.” Papyrus prostrates himself on the ground at Toriel's feet. “PLEASE, FORGIVE US! WE WERE ONLY ATTEMPTING TO—“ He looks up at Sans. Frisk makes a frantic, flat-handed _NO_ gesture behind Toriel’s back. “ONLY ATTEMPTING TO COOK YOU A DELICIOUS DINNER! YOU DO SO MUCH FOR US, WE ONLY WANTED TO PAY YOU BACK!”

“It’s—it’s true!” says Alphys, hiding as much of herself as possible behind Undyne’s head.

“You had a cooking party, and you didn’t invite me? You guys. I don’t mean to sound _kneady_ , but I’m kinda hurt.”

“YOU WERE TAKING A NAP!!” Papyrus shouts with genuine frustration.

The kitchen is a wreckage of broken crockery and splintered glass, a mushy pond of pie filling mixed with alfredo in the center. Frisk’s heart skips in their chest. They glance up at Toriel, at the anger in the set of her jaw and her narrowed eyes, and drop to their knees, gathering broken bowl shards in their hands. She clasps their shoulder. “Now, you stop that. You’ll cut yourself.” She cups Frisk's hand to see a slash of red at their fingertips. “Look! It’s already too late. Go sit at the table, you silly child.”

Frisk sits at the charred table. Toriel hopscotches across the minefield of a floor and rummages in one of the high cabinets. The cabinets were made for human arms and hands, and jars clink and roll as she shoves in a huge paw.

“Oh sh—I mean, oh darn, I am stuck.” She looks at Sans expectantly. “Swear Jar,” he says, and she rummages in her pockets for a dollar to drop in the huge jar labeled “Swear Jar—Frisk’s College Fund!!” on the counter that has, against all odds, survived the wreckage. It is already half full of money, mostly her own contributions. She roots around in the cabinet once more and returns with a box of bandages.

Frisk tries to hide their eyes behind their sodden bangs as she cradles their injured hand in her paw, wrapping each fingertip in a flower-patterned bandage. “There you go, silly. I’ll go get a broom for the glass.”

Sans sidles up alongside Toriel and nudges her arm gently. “Hey, Tori. I’m sorry about your kitchen. I’d _ash_ you what happened, but it’s _flaming_ obvious.” Toriel’s ears rise a bit and she cracks a small smile.

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Orange.”

She grins. “Orange who?”

“Orange you glad I’m gonna help you clean it up?” He says with a finger gun. She bleats a soft chuckle.

Undyne gives Frisk a salute and a huge razor-sharp grin. Alphys hops and down beside her. Papyrus winks. Frisk waves their arms in a desperate shushing gesture.

“I would appreciate that very much, Sans.”

“I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WILL ALSO LEND MY AID! AFTER HAVING RAVAGED YOUR MAJESTY’S KITCHEN, THE LEAST I CAN DO IS ATTEMPT TO FIX MY MISTAKES!”

“Just Toriel, please. No more of this ‘Your Majesty.’”

“OF COURSE, QUEEN TORIEL!”

Toriel sighs, pressing a hand against her forehead. “You two, as well,” she says, pointing at Undyne and Alphys. “Cleaning. Immediately.”

By sunset the kitchen is, if still a charred husk, clean of food residue and no longer a danger to walk in. And the oven still works. Toriel sees the others off with the promise of further discussion and the declaration of a new house rule: no one cooks in Toriel’s kitchen but Toriel.

Frisk stands in the hallway, hands clasped, tracing a circle on the ground with their toe. _I’M REALLY SORRY_ , they have written on a piece of paper taped to their sweater. Toriel leans down to peel it off. “You sweet, silly child. Thank you for apologizing. Now we have an important new house rule!”

Frisk sniffles, scrubbing tears from their cheek with the back of their hand. _I made you really mad_ , they write.

“Oh, child. I was very mad! But mostly I was mad at your friends, who should have been watching you. And who should also really know proper kitchen safety at their ages. I wonder, who taught Undyne that it was acceptable to cook with that much rage? It must have been Asgore. I should have words with that man.”

Frisk, hiccupping, throws their arms around Toriel’s knee. She stoops to hug them. “And besides, I’m happier that you are all right. Kitchens can be replaced, but not children.” She wipes Frisk’s cheeks dry with the edge of her sleeve. “And look!” she says, opening the refrigerator door to reveal Frisk’s pie. “Did you make this pie yourself?” They nod, sniffing again. “It is a very nice pie!” Frisk does not think so—the crust is even more lumpy and lopsided now, and some filling has dribbled down the side. “And you made it all on your own! Why don’t we put this in the oven and see how it turns out? How does that sound, little one?” Frisk nods, swiping at the last of their tears with a sleeve. “Maybe we can take some to your Uncle Sans tomorrow! To say thank you for helping clean up.”

Frisk nods with enthusiasm.

Step One is declared at the same time both a dramatic failure and a tentative success.

* * *

 

“Whoa there, buddy,” says Sans. “We’ve been going at it upwards of an hour now. Howsabout a little break? I’ll get you popcorn.”

Frisk and Sans are at the used DVD and game store to get some supplies for Friday movie night with Toriel, otherwise known as Step Two. Sans suggested that it might be fun if they played a few rounds on the dance game machine.

Sans is a liar. Frisk is not having fun. They are, in fact, having a very bad time.

It has been upwards of an hour and even though their sweaty bangs hang in their eyes and their socks have gotten kind of soggy, their steps are steady and sure. They earn a near-perfect rank every time.

Sans is flawless. While wearing house slippers.

Even though misery is setting in, the thought of winning a round fills them with determination. They are about to select another song when Sans taps their shoulder with a sharp finger. “Short stack, we have to get the movies now or we’ll be late. But howsabout this? Tomorrow, I’ll bring you back, and we can have an official tournament. Loser buys the winner Grillby’s. Well? Whaddaya say?”

He offers Frisk his hand. Frisk grasps it with a firm pump. Sans winks. “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow… _we got a bone to pick_.”

_AHHHHH_ , says Frisk, in the form of waving arms and a scowl.

“Now let’s see about these flicks. Alphys gave you a list, right?”

Frisk yanks said list out of their pocket. Alphys coached them through all the options earlier in addition to drawing little stars next to the suggestions most likely to achieve “maximal romantic capacity.”

“Well, kiddo? Any of these sound like a _reel_ -y good time to you?”

Frisk twirls a finger over the list and settles on an anime high school dramedy. “It’s sooo romantic, Frisk,” Alphys said, clasping her claws to her chest. “I used to watch it and imagine Undyne was the dashing, mysterious transfer student! She would take the seat in front of me by the window and I would ask her for help with the music homework—“

“You totally still do that,” Undyne responded with a punch to the arm.

“All right, if you say so.” Sans takes their hand and leads them into the maze of shelves. As they descend farther and deeper into the labyrinth, the DVD covers begin to feature humans and monsters in various states of undress and anatomically impossible positions. Sans, sweating bullets and blushing deep blue, attempts to cover Frisk’s eyes with his hands. “Uh. You know what? How about no. Let’s turn around immediately.”

He drags them back to the front where the family-friendly movies are gathered on a small stand. “Whew. Close call. Tori would _get my goat_ if I let her kid wander around in the 17+ anime. Why not one of these? Looks like a great time for everybody.”

Frisk scans the safe zone for one of Alphys’s recommendations. At last they settle on a coming of age movie about a young witch, one of Alphys’s all-time favorites. “Just because it’s a kids’ movie doesn’t mean it can’t make a legitimate, moving commentary on romance from a child’s perspective! I cry every time! Undyne even cried a little bit!”

“… Okay. Fine! I shed a couple tears! I mean… I’m tough!! I love to eat rocks!!” said Undyne.

“Great choice. Now let’s get back before Tori thinks I’ve _kid_ -napped you.”

At home, Toriel has already settled herself on the couch and set up a cushion for Frisk. Right in the middle between her and Sans. He pours the popcorn and plops down next to Frisk. The credits open to a chirpy piano theme. Frisk holds their fist up to their mouth and coughs.

_Mom, I don’t feel so good_ , they write.

“Oh, dear! Let me feel.” Toriel presses the back of her paw against Frisk’s forehead. “You are a little warm. Is it your head? Your stomach? Your throat?”

_Yes_ , says Frisk.

“Say ahhh. Oh, you do look a little swollen. Sit tight, butterscotch, and I’ll get you something for your fever. Sans, I do apologize, but would you mind going down to the corner store and fetching Frisk some cough syrup, and some antacids, and maybe a hot water bottle?”

“Sure thing,” says Sans, patting Frisk’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, pal. Tori and I are gonna turn your sickness into sick- _less_.”

“Frisk, gives Sans his jacket back, please."

“Hey, squirt, you know why skeletons need jackets in summertime? Because we get chilled to the _bone_!” Frisk makes feeble finger-guns in response. The concern of their foster parents is giving them a warm, tight feeling in their chest. And a pinching prickle of guilt. But they are filled with determination.

_You really don’t have to! I don’t feel that bad. Just like I need to lie down for a little while_.

“Sweetheart, are you sure? Uncle Sans will get you that cough syrup! The pink kind that you like so much.”

_I’m really okay. I just think I need to sleep early tonight_. They cough again, softer, to be convincing but not worrying.

Toriel frowns, shaking her head. “All right. Get yourself to bed. I’ll come check on you in ten minutes. And I’m making a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow and if your cough gets worse we’re going straight to the emergency room.”

“We’ll save this movie for you next time,” says Sans. “Uh, Tori? I think I have a backup in my bag. Something Undyne recommended? Lots of great action and bad laughs?”

“That… that sounds lovely.” Toriel tries to cover her surprise. “Why don’t you put it in while I get Frisk’s medicine?”

It takes all of Frisk’s self-control not to fist-pump in front of them. Instead, they do it in the bathroom before they tug on their pajamas, brush their teeth, and huddle up in bed. The door creaks as Toriel enters with a glass of water and two pills. “Here you go. Drink up, buttercup.”

Frisk gulps the pills down and settles against their pillows. Toriel pulls the covers up underneath their chin and kisses their forehead. “Sleep tight, my sweet child, and feel better in the morning.”

“Yeah, Frisk!” Sans calls from the living room. “You have to recover _tibia_ champion tomorrow in our tournament!”

Toriel shuts the door, and Frisk counts to ten before throwing off the covers and padding across the floor. Before they reach halfway, their closet snaps open, revealing three piles of freshly re-folded laundry and one skeleton.

“IT IS I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS! I AM THE SKELETON IN YOUR CLOSET!” Papyrus manages to sound like he is speaking in ALL CAPS even at a whisper. “GUARD-CAPTAIN UNDYNE HAS COMMANDED ME TO BEAR WITNESS TO STEP TWO! HOW ARE OPERATIONS COMMENCING?”

Frisk holds a finger in front of their lips and flashes a thumbs-up. With Papyrus behind them, they press an ear against the door. They can hear muffled explosions and some dubstep theme music. “NOTHING IS HAPPENING,” says Papyrus. Frisk kicks his ankle, then reaches up to turn the knob and crack the door open just an inch.

“—A bone to pick,” says a deep voice from the TV screen. Toriel collapses in a flurry of giggles as Sans wheezes. “They… they saw a chance and they…” He gasps. “Took it…”

Frisk and Papyrus exchange an excited look. Well, Frisk is excited, anyway. Papyrus just looks resigned.

There are several more explosions and awful jokes, and Toriel and Sans laugh, but neither of them is talking. Frisk huffs in disappointment. It would have been better if they’d been able to get the high school anime. Maximal romantic capacity has obviously not been reached.

During a lull in the action, soft violin plays and the couch creaks as Toriel shifts around. “I, ah—do you think I ought to check on Frisk again?”

“Kid’s a tough cookie.” Sans pauses. “But if you think you should, you should.”

“I’ll be right back.” Her voice grows louder. “Just a minute.”

Papyrus and Frisk exchange a dismayed glance before they are both forced to dive to safety. The door creaks open. Toriel does not take notice of the gentle rattling noise coming from the closet and instead leans down to listen to the rhythm of Frisk’s slow, soft, and completely fake breathing and rest a paw on their forehead.

Frisk springs back up as soon as the door is closed again. Papyrus bursts from the closet, knocking some clothes about. Frisk inches the door open again as he kneels, distressed, to fold up the laundry pile.

“Kid’s good, huh?” asks Sans. “Yes. They appear to be sleeping peacefully. Perhaps the doctor’s appointment won’t be necessary after all.”

“Squirt will make a full recovery. They’ll be back to _Frisky_ business in no time.” Sans shuffles around. “Uh, knock-knock?”

“Who is there?”

“A really great mom.”

“A really great mom who?”

“You.”

Frisk can’t see, but they can guess from his quiet, hesitant tone of voice that Sans’s skull currently resembles a blueberry. They bite their lip and hold their breath.

“That’s… very kind of you to say, Sans. But I’m just a silly old lady who worries too much.”

“Nah, you’re a great _mom_ -ster.” Toriel doesn’t laugh. A tense silence ensues. Sans coughs. “I mean, they obviously adore you. And, uh. It’s nice to see you two together. Now you both have someone to tell snail jokes. Kinda… warms my sternum, y’know? I used to… uh… worry about you being _bonely_.”

“That was my joke,” Toriel scolds lightly. And then says, “I always looked forward to talking with you, Sans. Your jokes were my favorite part of the day. And… they still are.”

Frisk holds up a hand to high-five Papyrus, but he scoots closer to the door, his jawbone set. “THAT IS SO SAD,” he WHISPERS. “HER MAJESTY, LOCKED IN THE RUINS ALL BY HER LONESOME… IT’S ENOUGH TO MAKE EVEN A COOL DUDE LIKE YOURS TRULY WANT TO SHED A TEAR!”

“Hey, I’m just glad I can get a bleat outta ya every now and then. It’s, uh, one of the best parts of my day too.” Frisk clenches their fists in anticipation, but there is only silence, and then half-hearted chuckles at something on the TV screen.

“You should speak for yourself,” says Toriel. “You’re always looking out for Papyrus. He’s lucky to have a brother like you.”

“Aww, shucks. Pap doesn’t need me to keep an eye socket on him. Mostly I just let him do his own thing.”

“OH, SANS! THAT IS UNTRUE! YOU MAY BE A LAYABOUT LAZYBONES, BUT… WITHOUT YOU, I WOULD JUST BE A COOL BUT SAD ROYAL GUARDSMAN WITHOUT AN AMAZING BROTHER!”

“Isn’t my brother cool?”

“SANS…” Papyrus’s knees buckle and he collapses against the door, hanging his skull. “I AM NOT COOL ENOUGH TO BE WORTHY!”

Frisk tugs on Papyrus’s scarf. Papyrus, flinging a hand against his forehead, pays them no mind. “HOW COULD I NOT HAVE SEEN THE FEELINGS YOU HARBORED FOR HER MAJESTY, HOW BEING IN HER PRESENCE BROUGHT YOU SUCH JOY? WHAT KIND OF BROTHER WAS I, TO PUT MY HAPPINESS BEFORE YOUR OWN? I DO BELIEVE I AM ABOUT TO… SHED A FEW COOL, MANLY TEARS!”

In Frisk’s opinion, Papyrus’s tears are not few and definitely not quiet. They attempt to nudge him towards the window with no success.

“Sans, do you hear that? Frisk is crying! Frisk, don’t worry, I’m coming—“ Toriel opens the door on Frisk attempting to stuff Papyrus out the window.

“NO, STOP!” he sobs. “YOU’RE MESSING UP THE CURTAINS!!”

“… Papyrus?” Toriel tilts her head, her hands on her hips. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you skulking about in my child’s bedroom at night?”

“Y-YOUR… I MEAN, QUEEN—“ Papyrus stops to catch his breath in the force of Toriel’s most powerful slit-eyed motherly shaming stare. “T-TORIEL. I JUST WANTED TO… PARTICIPATE IN THE MOVIE NIGHT! YES! THAT’S IT! FRISK IS SMUGGLING ME IN!”

Frisk gives an apologetic shrug.

“You could have just asked to watch with us, bro. No big deal,” says Sans, the glow in his left eye fading.

“BR-BROTHER!” A few fat tears dribble over Papyrus’s cheekbones. “DO YOU REALLY THINK I’M COOL?”

“Of course. You’re the coolest dude I know. Ice cold. You might say you’re… _bub_ -zero.”

“THAT IS THE WORST!” Papyrus bawls, clutching at his brother’s shirt.

“What’s got you all upset? Why don’t we mosey down the street to get some food and _taco_ bout it?” Sans rubs Papyrus’s back. “I’m just gonna, ah, take my bro on home now? I guess?”

“That does seem best,” says a perplexed Toriel. “Feel better, Papyrus!” she calls as they are halfway out the front door. Papyrus’s ribs shake in a fresh burst of sobs.

“And you, young one! You should be resting! I do believe I’m going to call Asgore and ask him to bring over some cough syrup.”

Frisk curls up in bed with a defeated sigh. And Step Two had been starting to go so well.


	3. Chapter 3

“HUDDLE UP, SQUAD!” Undyne punches a picnic table with enough force to crack it in half. Frisk utters a silent squeal as they bounce in their seat.

“L-let’s maybe not destroy the public furniture,” says Alphys, glancing about at their fellow parkgoers. Frisk doesn’t know if they’re staring because they’ve never seen such a ragtag group of monsters plus one human child before, or never seen anyone punch a table in half, or both of the above. “Even though I love that about you.”

“Sorry, babe.” Undyne gives both halves of the table a friendly slap. “Operation: FANFICTION IS REAL has reached STEP THREE! Unfortunately, Steps One and Two did not entirely go to plan, so it looks like Step Three will not be occurring spontaneously. Therefore, we will have to force conditions under which Sans and Toriel confess their love! IDEAS, RECRUITS!”

“In Mew Mew Kissy Cutie The Movie, Mew Mew and Toshio get locked in a closet together when they’re cleaning the classroom for art club! That’s when they kiss!”

“WE COULD GET TORIEL TO TRY TO CLEAN THE SELF-PERPETUATING TRASH TORNADO IN SANS’S ROOM! WAIT, THAT IS A TERRIBLE IDEA. SHE WOULD NEVER WANT TO DATE HIM AFTER SEEING FIRSTHAND WHAT A SLOB HE CAN BE!”

“I can challenge both of them to a fight, at the same time! Nothing brings out people’s deepest desires like THE FRENETIC PASSION OF COMBAT!” Frisk holds up a sign that says _BAD IDEA_ and points to it. “What do you mean, it’s a bad idea? Do you not think I can take them? AM I NOT THE TOUGHEST MONSTER ALIVE?”

Papyrus clears his throat—or what would be his throat, if he had one. “I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, HAVE ONE WORD FOR YOU ALL. PUZZLES.”

Frisk writes _PUZZLES_ in agreement, so firmly they tear their paper.

“PUZZLES,” say Alphys and Undyne in unison.

“THERE IS NO GREATER BONDING ACTIVITY THAN DOING PUZZLES TOGETHER! UNDER THE DIRECTION OF MYSELF, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WE WILL SURROUND TORIEL’S HOME BASE WITH A FRUSTRATING, FABULOUS, INFURIATING PUZZLE! AND THEY WILL BE FORCED TO WORK TOGETHER TO SOLVE IT! AND IN THE PROCESS… THEY WILL CONFESS THEIR TRUE FEELINGS!”

Undyne claps Papyrus on the back. “And that kind of thinking, Papyrus, is why you are an official royal guard recruit!”

“I—I AM? I MEAN, OF COURSE I AM!” Papyrus brushes some invisible dust off his scapula.

“TO WORK, TEAM! I want to see some puzzle ideas in fifteen minutes! Make them AWFUL. Think of the WORST PUZZLES YOU CAN.”

Within just under five, Alphys has produced a complex diagram using Frisk’s sketchbook and crayons, the compass she always keeps in her pocket, her extensive knowledge of higher mathematics, and her own sweat. “WOWIE, ALPHYS!” Papyrus’s teeth chatter. “THIS HAS TO BE THE BEST PUZZLE YOU’VE EVER DESIGNED! IT MAKES MY BONES QUIVER WITH ENVY.”

“Aww, thanks,” says Alphys, rubbing said sweat from her forehead.

“IT’S BEAUTIFUL!” says Undyne, “JUST LIKE YOU!”

At a gesture from Undyne, Papyrus covers Frisk’s eyes for about a minute.

“All right, Recruit Frisk! Recruit Papyrus is on supplies—“

“UNDYNE! I AM YOUR MOST LOYAL AND FAIFTHFUL GUARDSMAN AND I WILL PROCURE THE BEST SUPPLIES YOU HAVE EVER LAID YOUR EYE ON!!”

“—And you, small champ! Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to ensure that Sans and Toriel are in the house together while we set up! Do you think you can HANDLE IT?” Frisk snaps into a salute. “YEAH! THAT’S MY CHAMP!” Undyne twirls them around in the air over her head like a helicopter. “There is no way Step Three cannot be a total success! OPERATION: FANFICTION IS REAL WILL BE OUR GREATEST TRIUMPH!”

Frisk has already prepared an excuse in the form of a board game, which they hope will be their revenge on Sans for the dance game tournament. Sans tried to let them win. But they stomped their foot and demanded he play for real, and then he beat them, of course, and they had to spend their entire allowance on five bottles of overpriced ketchup at Grillby’s.

Toriel invites both of the skeleton brothers, but Papyrus has to drop out due to “A THING, AT A PLACE, WITH SOME PEOPLE! SO… YOU THREE HAVE *AUDIBLE WINK* SOME FUN!” leaving only, Toriel, Frisk, and Sans on the couch once more, in that order.

Nobody has fun. Except for Toriel, who, it turns out, has centuries of experience handling royal accounts and balancing the delicate underground economy which translates well to strategy games. Frisk, bored of losing over and over even though Toriel extends them a “loan” every time, ends up constructing a small tent out of some pillows and Sans’s jacket. Sans holds out in one small corner of the board, but it is only a matter of time before he, too, falls before Toriel’s vast financial empire.

The doorbell rings as Toriel is buying the last of his property. “Undyne! Do not kick in my door again!” Toriel calls. She stands up and brushes out her skirt. The doorbell rings again, three times, and Frisk thinks they can hear some muffled giggles.

But when Toriel opens the door, there is nothing but a note on the stoop. She bends down to retrieve it, narrowly avoiding a swinging axe. “Oh my stars!” she shrieks, with an extra word quite new to Frisk thrown in, before hopping backward and clapping one hand over her mouth.

“SWEAR JAR!” Sans exclaims as Frisk agrees with a sign.

“I do apologize, my child. Sans, I think you ought to come take a look at this, and then you might also wish to pay the swear jar.”

“This” is Alphys and Papyrus’s masterstroke. Frisk has less than fond memories of racing through Alphys’s colored tile puzzle in the Hotland. This puzzle looks like a step up on the puzzle food chain, or perhaps that puzzle’s angry, disaffected older sibling.

It also involves colored squares. But Alphys has clearly improved on the design. Now, there is a lattice of swinging axes above some squares, and below others, flamethrowers. Links of chain block off prospective paths. Frisk thinks they might see some piranhas leaping from tile to tile.

And every ten seconds, the axes shift mid-swing and the squares blink and change color.

Toriel fumbles for the reading glasses tucked in her collar. “These appear to be… some kind of directions?”

Sans skims it quickly, and then it is Frisk’s turn. The note is in Papyrus’s long, looping script.

_GOOD AFTERNOON! YOU HAVE BEEN VISITED BY THE PUZZLE FAIRY! WHO MADE THIS BEAUTIFUL PUZZLE, JUST FOR YOU!_

_HERE ARE_

_THE RULES!_

_The axes complete a 180-degree swing every five seconds if they are over a yellow square, ten seconds over a blue, and two over a red._

_Flamethrowers are under every third square from the left, but will not turn on if the square they are under is green._

_Piranhas live in the blue squares, and will attempt to leap onto pink squares, but they will avoid you if you have stepped on a citrusy-fresh orange square!_

There are two more pages of directions in Alphys’s cramped script. Frisk is not determined enough to read them.

_If you want to win, then you must step on every white tile within a total of five minutes, or the sequence will reset._

_And all the squares other than white change color every ten seconds!_

_GOOD LUCK!_

Papyrus has left a postscript: _P.S. THIS PUZZLE IS TOO DIFFICULT FOR FRISK SO DO NOT LET THEM PARTICIPATE! IT IS AN ADULTS ONLY PUZZLE. PLEASE AND THANK YOU_.

Frisk sticks their tongue out at the letter. Toriel looks at them over the rims of her glasses. “My child… you wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”

Frisk attempts an innocent shrug. Toriel lifts her chin. “Really? Absolutely nothing? Not a word? Not even…” She leans down for a conspiratorial whisper in Frisk’s ear. “A hint?” Frisk ducks their head so their bangs hang in front of their eyes and shakes their head.

Toriel, hands on her hips, surveys the nightmare of fire, steel, and killer fish. “You know. It has been a very long time since I solved a good puzzle. Not since the ruins, and those got very boring after the hundredth time.” And the thousandth. And the seventh thousandth. Frisk has done the math. Well, actually Alphys has done the math, but Frisk knows the math.

Sans stands, stretching so all his vertebrae pop. “Y’know, my brother has me test his puzzles every now and then, but he always holds back because he doesn’t want to rough up the humans too much. So it’s been a while since I’ve really had to work… down to the _bone_.”

Toriel snorts, leaning down to bunch up her long skirt over her knees and twist it into a knot. Sans, copiously leaking awesome, gulps. Frisk needs to accept that they will never know how a skeleton gulps. “Well… shall we?”

“You know what?” Sans kicks off his house slippers. Frisk snatches them up to place on Toriel’s shoe rack. “Why not? Could be a good time.”

Frisk follows them out to the edge of the front stoop, just out of reach of a quick beheading. “Frisk, I think this “Puzzle Fairy” is correct. This looks like a bit much for a child.”

Frisk huffs. But as they don’t want to defeat the purpose of Step Three, they sit down on the stoop with their legs crossed, saluting Toriel. Sans winks on his way past. “Watch and learn, short stack.”

And Frisk learns. They expected that Toriel would get the hang of things pretty quickly. She did, after all, live in a puzzle-infested ruin for at least two decades. And their bad times with Sans on the dance machine proved that his everyday lack of speed is, in fact, a lifestyle choice. But they did not expect their foster family to be quite this impressive.

For the first twenty minutes, Sans and Toriel charge straight in, laughing at the very idea of strategy. And it seems they won’t need it. Sans skips around obstacles with his hands in his jacket pockets, whistling off-key. Toriel is graceful for a creature of any size, let alone her own considerable stature. And the piranha squares prove to be less than a problem because whenever a murderous fish draws near she incinerates it with her fire magic.

 _Mom is cheating_ , Frisk texts Alphys.

Alphys responds with a trollface reaction image. _Don’t worry, Frisk. I planned for that_.

The next time Toriel attempts to grill a fish, it simply swallows her magic whole. And then it gets bigger.

The two collapse back on the stoop next to Frisk, Sans’s singed jacket giving off little curls of smoke, Toriel’s skirt ragged and torn at the ends. Toriel’s knee bumps against Sans’s. She doesn’t move it. Neither does he.

 _WE HAVE CONTACT!!!!!!_ Frisk sends to the Operation: Fanfiction Is Real group text. They believe they can see Undyne’s arm stick out of a nearby hedge and wave, but it is too far to be sure.

“Strategy?” Toriel gasps.

“Yeah. Strategy.”

The next attempt, they coordinate their movements so Toriel takes a path on one side of the yard, and Sans the other. They very nearly win. Only two white tiles remain. Frisk is starting to get a bit concerned. At this rate, it’ll be done in under an hour without progressing past brushing knees.

“Yoo-hoo! Darlings! Look over here at the camera!”

Frisk’s concern grows heavy and sinks. It’s Mettaton, wearing a sequined, hot-pink three piece suit, video camera in hand. They clap their hands over their face.

“Mettaton?” calls Toriel in the midst of hopping over a flamethrower. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, I came to watch the show, lovelies! Everyone loves a good puzzle!”

Frisk dials Undyne’s number frantically. They hear her ringtone—a bunch of wrestlers calling their attacks, autotuned—somewhere nearby. Probably the hedge. “FRISK, MY MAIN DUDE! We don’t have a good view down here! How is it going? Are they confessing their love yet? HAVE THEY KISSED? IS THEIR PASSION CONSUMING THE STARS?”

Frisk knocks the phone three times against the stoop. _EMERGENCY._

“WE’RE ON OUR WAY, CHAMP! JUST HOLD ON!”

Undyne, Alphys, and Papyrus stumble out of the hedge, brushing leaves out of their spines and ribs and scales, and attempt to stroll casually down the street up behind Mettaton. Frisk vaults off the stoop, hops three tiles, twirls around a jet of flame and scrambles over a length of chain link before Toriel can call their name.

They bound up to Undyne, pointing frantically at Mettaton, who has gotten caught up in filming Sans attempting to yank a piranha off one of his metacarpals.

“Why, uh, hello, Toriel, Sans! What an… um… fine day it is!” squeaks Alphys.

“What a puzzle, huh?” says Undyne. “Someone REALLY SMART must have made it!” Alphys splutters, breaking into a sweat.

“Hey, bro. Alphys, Undyne.” Sans could not be less concerned about the fish gnawing on his extremity. “What’s up? Having an okay day? Wish I could say the same for myself, right now I could really use _a bit of a hand—“_ Toriel charges up the row of tiles next to him, yanks the fish off, and hurls it with force over the roof. “Thanks, Tori.” He waves at Mettaton with his reclaimed hand. “And Mettaton’s here, too. Say hi to my bro, will you? He’s your biggest fan, you know, you’re his favorite sexy rectangle—“

“SANS, PLEASE DESIST IMMEDIATELY,” Papyrus shouts.

“Actually, Papyrus did invite me! Thanks again ever so much, darling!” Metatton, placing a hand on his chest, spins so the coattails of his long jacket twirl around, then winks at Papyrus. Papyrus’s knees buckle. He steadies himself and pretends he tripped on the curb. “It’s the two things I can never resist—puzzles, and unresolved romantic tension!”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” asks Toriel, pricking an ear over the metallic shriek of an axe. “I’m an old lady, dear, I’m a bit hard of hearing!”

Mettaton cups his hands around his mouth. “I said, UNRESOLVED ROMANTIC TENSION, DARLINGS!” He lifts his camera to focus on Sans and Toriel in what is surely a dramatic close-up. Frisk chews on their nails.

A furious Undyne rounds on Papyrus. “We made a PACT! WE MADE A SQUAD PROMISE!”

“IT… IT IS TRUE!” Papyrus looks at the ground beneath Undyne’s fins. “IT WAS I! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, AM… NOTHING BUT A FILTHY TRAITOR! I HAVE BROKEN THE GUARDSMAN’S BOND! DO WITH ME WHAT YOU WILL, GUARD-CAPTAIN! BUT I HOPE YOU WILL BE LENIENT WHEN YOU SEE THAT I AM THE PUT-UPON VICTIM IN THIS SCENARIO!”

He falls to his knees and shakes his fists for maximum dramatic effect. “HE SEDUCED ME! I WAS TRAPPED IN HIS DARK PRISON OF PASSION! I WAS LEFT WITH NO CHOICE!”

Mettaton blows Papyrus a kiss with a wink. Papyrus flinches, flushing. “YOU SEE? YOU ALL DON’T KNOW WHAT TERRIBLE, AWFUL THINGS HE DID TO MAKE ME CONFESS!”

Frisk takes advantage of the distraction to snatch Mettaton’s camera from his hand. “Why, darling! How dare you run amuck stealing my things!” They strike a dramatic pose with their stolen goods and bounds over to hide behind Undyne.

“What kinds of awful things did he do?” asks Alphys, adjusting her glasses with the huge smile of a proud mother.

“THINGS LIKE… TELL ME I LOOKED LIKE A COOL DUDE! TAKE ME OUT FOR A NICE SPAGHETTI DINNER! TREAT ME TO AN ADVANCE PRIVATE SCREENING OF HIS NEW FILM IN HIS OWN HOME!”

“FRATERNIZING WITH THE ENEMY!” Undyne screeches with mixed rage and delight.

“My baby’s all grown up and fanfiction _is_ real,” Alphys whispers, clutching her face and staring misty-eyed into the middle distance.

 _Nice one, dude_ , writes Frisk with a thumbs-up.

“I SAID, UNRESOLVED ROMANTIC TENSION!” Mettaton shouts for the fifth time.

“Sorry, no ears to hear you with!” Sans responds.

“Sans,” pants Toriel, jogging up behind him. “There’s one tile left across the yard and we have exactly thirty seconds. If I may?”

“ _Time flies_ , Tori,” says Sans with a wink. Toriel lifts him up and throws him.

He sails in a wide arc over with his arms thrown wide. For a second, it looks like his descent will take him right into the edge of an axe, but then there’s a blue flicker and a flash and it drifts by, harmless. He lands on the last white tile.

The axes grind to a halt, the fires blink out, the piranhas droop. The tiles flash in a seizure-inducing pattern, playing a jaunty tune.

“I—impossible!” Alphys hurries to the edge of her creation, kneeling to examine a tile. “I designed it to take _five hours_! How could they have finished so easily?”

“NOW, KISS!” exclaims Mettaton with a flourish.

“Come again?” asks Toriel at the same time Sans says, “Say what now?”

“Come on! Everyone can see it, darlings! Even little Frisk! What do you think they all set up this gorgeous puzzle for? Every single one of them is just dying for some romantic resolution!” He lifts his leg above his head, flicking the boot for encouragement. “So what are you waiting for? Finish strong with a big smooch!”

Toriel looks at Sans. Sans looks absolutely everywhere but at Toriel.

“WELL?”

Mettaton makes a grab for his camera but Frisk darts out of his reach. Undyne bites her lip, almost cutting herself. Papyrus gasps in anticipation. “I can’t look,” Alphys mutters into her hands.

“I… Uh? I uh? I have to… Uh… I have to… UHHH,” says Sans, and vanishes in a burst of blue light.

Frisk gasps in surprise and triumph. They knew he could teleport. But at the moment, with Toriel’s ears drooping so low, they decide to put off gloating for later. They run to their mother.

Mettaton sighs, swooning against Papyrus. “What a disappointment! Not even a little peck! Oh, well. They can’t all be showstoppers. Pack it up, people!” He throws an arm over Papyrus’s shoulders. “Beautiful, why don’t we blow this joint? I know a nice pasta restaurant up the avenue. No reservations. What do you say?”

This is the same pasta restaurant that Papyrus usually sniffs at as “KIND OF OKAY, I GUESS, IF YOU ARE INTO THAT SORT OF THING.” Today, his eyes bugging out of his skull, he mumbles, “WOWIE! YES! I WOULD LOVE TO! DRAW ME DEEPER INTO YOUR DARK PRISON OF PASSION! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, THIRST FOR YOU!”

“Oooohh yes,” Mettaton giggles, squeezing Papyrus’s shoulders as they saunter off. “Take me for a ride in your fast red car, stud!”

“GET IT, BOY!” Undyne howls, her rage forgotten. Alphys brushes some proud tears from her cheek.

Frisk hugs Toriel’s knee. Toriel ruffles their hair, then bends down to cup their chin. “My child. Is this true? Have you really recruited all our friends to push Sans and I together?”

Frisk nods, biting their lower lip. Toriel’s mouth quirks. “I suppose it was that obvious to everyone?” Frisk wobbles their chin up and down. “Oh, my sweet child. Thank you for thinking of me.” She sighs, straightening up to brush off her skirt. “But it’s a little farfetched to think that he would take an interest in a silly old lady like myself, right?”

And then she cries.

Toriel has a lot of very good reasons to cry. But so far to date, Frisk has only seen it happen three times. The day after they got to the surface. On Asriel’s birthday when she thought Frisk wasn’t looking. And now. This time, it’s their fault, and they feel like someone has taken a knife to everything inside their ribs.

Their mouth drops open. They cross their arms and shake their head, vigorously, tears prickling their eyes, and throw their arms around Toriel’s knee again. “I think that’s enough excitement for one day, Frisk. Let’s go back inside now. Frisk? Frisk, where are you going—“

Frisk is halfway up the street, their little fists pumping, racing towards the last place they saw the blue streak that was Sans disappear.

* * *

 

They assume he returned to the apartment he shares with Papyrus. Their route takes them past the park, sprinting past the picnic table Undyne cracked in half, and the row of flowers Asgore planted, and then the row of flowers Toriel planted, which is three times the size of Asgore’s. They skid to a stop as they notice a rotund shadow hulking on one of the benches. Panting, they draw up and tug on the hem of Sans’s jacket.

“Who—oh, it’s just you, kiddo.” He sighs and pats the seat beside him. “Might as well get up here.”

Frisk hauls themself onto the bench with their last reserves of strength. “Sorry to leave you in the lurch back there. Guess I… kind of panicked.”

Frisk nods agreement.

“I know the deal, squirt. You’ve been trying to set me and Tori up because you’ve got a huge, shiny, mushy soul and you just want to see everybody be happy.” Frisk nods, nudging up to his arm. “No one could ever say you don’t mean well, kiddo.”

Toriel’s flowers sway and sigh in the mild night breeze. Sans closes his eyes as the wind ruffles the fringe on his jacket. “I was always scared she would say no, right? Turn me down flat. That would be the worst. But… I was also afraid she would say yes. D’you get me?”

Frisk snuggles into Sans’s side. He puts an arm over their shoulders and cranes his neck back to watch the stars flicker and wink overhead. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over it, you know? The sky. Sometimes I’ll stop and take a good look at it, and it’s like my lungs don’t work. If I had lungs.”

Frisk nods, shivering. Sans unzips his jacket and wiggles out of the sleeve so they can have half.

“And every day, every single day, I think about how it could be gone in a blink. I… Ah, come on. You don’t have to sit here and listen to a sad sack talk about his issues.”

Frisk roots around in their pockets for a crayon. _You can patella me anything._

Sans chuckles and gives them a squeeze. “You’re pretty great. You know that? Whoever your parents are, wherever you came from, they’re missing out on a real special kid.” Frisk sniffles. “Aw, look, see, you’re allergic to feelings talk!” Frowning, they tug on his jacket. “All right, all right. I’m just not used to… stuff lasting. I’m not used to being able to go to sleep and know everyone will still be there in the morning.”

Frisk remembers a drawer full of photographs, a crowd of smiling faces all strange to them. Apart from Sans. Who is also smiling, of course. Sans is always smiling. But sometimes, his jawbone shifts and his cheekbones lift and Frisk knows it’s a smile for real, not just the permanent grin of his skull.

In those photographs. On the day they all first reached the surface. Sometimes when Papyrus yells at him, and when Frisk tries to make a really good pun, or when Frisk makes a really awful pun.

And when he looks at Toriel.

 _NO MORE RESETS_ , says Frisk in glitter pen. _REALLY. I MEAN IT_.

“Heh. I know you mean it. I know you wouldn’t tell me any fib… _ula_.”

 _AAAARRRRGH_ , Frisk writes in tiny letters underneath the glitter. _Sans, please._ They doodle a little picture of a bee with an angry face. _Bee serious_.

“Heh. Heh, heh. I’m rubbing off on ya, kid. But you never need to tell a skeleton to be serious. We’re always _grave_!”

_BA DUM CHING._

“You and your heaps of determination will keep everyone safe and out here under the sun. I know you mean it. Don’t think I don’t believe in you, squirt. But you never know how things might go. I never thought things would turn out… the way they have. Never in a million resets.”

He scrapes the back of his skull. “I know that fear’s not ever gonna go away, huh? Say… how’s Tori back there? She didn’t… I hurt her feelings?”

_She was crying._

“Ah, nutsack.” His left eye flashes. “I mean, uh. You didn’t hear anything.”

_SWEAR JAR!_

“All right, all right. Come on, pal.” He stands up and turns his back to Frisk so they can cling to his jacket. “Let’s go put a dollar in the swear jar.”

* * *

 

Toriel opens the door on Frisk riding piggyback on Sans, their hands clutching his collarbones. “Frisk! Thank the angel! I was worried sick! Everyone is out searching for you! Both of you get in here right now!”

She grasps at Frisk, lifting them into a rib-crushing hug. “Don’t you run off on me like that!” Her ears droop as she glances down at Sans. “Sans. Thank you for bringing them back.”

“Don’t mention it.” He shuffles his bare feet about. “Tori, I have something to say,” he says, at the same time she begins with “Sans, I think we ought to have a talk.”

“You first,” he says. “But, uh, d’you want the kid to stick around?”

“Frisk is my family, and also quite fond of you, and so what I am about to say affects them too. And besides. I have a sneaking suspicion that they’re just going to eavesdrop through the door on everything we say anyway.” Toriel sets Frisk down with a fond glare. “Aren’t you?”

Frisk, bouncing on their heels, gives her a double thumbs-up.

“Sans. It is probably apparent to you by now that… my feelings for you are different than friendship.” Sans appears to be about to sink into his jacket. Frisk offers an encouraging wave. “Um. That’s it. That’s all. You probably do not feel the same way.” Her eyes shine wetly and she wrings her hands, but she squares her chin and continues on. “I understand. We can go on being friends and forget I ever said anything. Or… not be friends, if that makes you uncomfortable.”

“Toriel.” Sans coughs and wipes some awesome from his forehead with a shaking hand. “That’s… how you think I’m outta the league of a classy lady like yourself doesn’t make any damn sense, especially when you’re so high above me, I need Pap’s binoculars just to get a good look. But… ever since our good times back in the ruins… I’ve uh… liked you a _skele-ton_.” Toriel lets out a shocked little giggle. “And I… I wanna take you out to Grillby’s! Tomorrow at five. On a date. A real date. On a bunch of real dates. You can call me a calendar, I’m so full of dates.”

“I. I… I should like that very much,” Toriel stammers, clasping her hands together. “I would love to go on a whole bushel of dates with you.”

Frisk hops up and down. Neither Toriel or Sans notices because they’re too busy smiling at each other. Sans’s jawbone shifts and his cheekbones lift. Toriel’s eyes are still wet, just a little, but she no longer bothers to rub at them.

“Just let me call Undyne and tell everyone to stop searching the neighborhood.”

While the phone is ringing, Sans ambles over to the swear jar and drops a dollar inside. Frisk pouts and holds up two fingers. Sans, chuckling, pushes in a five dollar bill.

Undyne must have asked Toriel to put her on speaker, because her voice fills the living room, shaking all the windows in their frames. “Frisk! Small champ! Are you there? Frisk, report in!”

“Frisk is waving hello,” says Toriel.

“RECRUIT FRISK! WHAT IS THE STATUS OF STEP THREE?”

Frisk makes an okay sign, but Toriel is already saying, “Step Three… went rather well, I think,” with a knowing smile.

“YYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSS,” screeches Undyne. Toriel flinches and holds the phone at arm’s length, her ears flapping.

“C-congratulations, you two!” says Alphys.

“I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WAS ALWAYS ROOTING FOR YOU! ALWAYS!” Papyrus insists.

“Ooooh yes, darlings. But I am so sad I missed the grand, happy finale! Do you think… if I came back, would you consider re-enacting it for the cameras? It can be part of my new segment on monsters finding love on the surface! Oooh yes, just let me call my—“

“Absolutely not,” says Toriel, before hanging up and tossing her phone at the general direction of the couch. It bounces off and hits a potted plant. “Frisk. Why don’t you go get ready for bed and play in your room for a little while?” She turns to Sans, blushing. “We have a rule in this household, you know.”

“The… the rule. The rule. That rule. Right.” He clears his throat. “Go on, kiddo. You’re gonna have a _bed_ time.”

Frisk salutes and turns on their heel to march to their bedroom. “And no eavesdropping, young human, or I’ll… I’ll take away your pie privileges for a whole week!”

“Better listen to your ma. I think she’s… not _kid_ -ding.”

Frisk closes the door on Sans and Toriel’s laughter. And they don’t eavesdrop at all, even though they’re quite curious about what goes on during the long stretch of silence before the front door shuts again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *It's the end!
> 
> A big thank you to everyone reading for sticking around! And to the authors of those super nice comments, wow, I wish I had some butterscotch pie to hand out to all you sweetie pies! I do believe I might... CRY SOME COOL, MANLY TEARS!
> 
> EDIT: It's been like a half a year and people are still reading and commenting on this? Idk what I did to deserve such good things in my life. Thank you all!


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